Torn
by NewYorks
Summary: To think that the Witch could finally find hope and redemption. It makes one wonder about the afterlife, doesn’t it?


_Disclaimer_: I do ot own anything pertaining to 'Wicked'. I only borrow from Gregory Maguire's master imagination.

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**Torn**

Because, who knew that there was an afterlife, after all?

Certainly not the Witch; certainly not _her_. In her whole life, in the pulsating chaos, one doesn't think in the hereafter, one doesn't think what is going to happen next. But the Witch did. The Witch knew, the Witch was almost sure that there was no life after death, no release for her.

All that a being seeks, in the end, is redemption: that's the truth we all request. To be rescued from the sorrow, the hollowness, the emptiness that fills our insides and is persistently detestable to suffer. It is, in a way, pathetic – but she knew, she knew from the moment she was born that her sole purpose was to provide liberation: she was a punishment; she was castigation to her mother, to her father. Yes, they used her as an excuse to feel guilty; to, afterwards, have their salvation; to have their chastisement for their callous sins: yes, both of them: the holly preacher, and his exceptional wife. And so they were exonerated from their sins. Or so they hoped.

She had been an excuse for the murder of her sister as well. No, she didn't believe it had been a simple accident. She didn't believe in accidents in the first place. And in this case, in this scenario, it was the Munchkins who looked for deliverance, for hope: to be freed from the Witch of the East – the _other_ witch. And that is how she saved them: by killing her sister, however indirect the slaughter had been – yes, slaughter. Oh, the irony of it all.

She had, then, wanted to seek for her own piece of forgiveness, a kind of self-pity perhaps – though she always wondered how it would feel like to be pardoned, to be freed; to feel like everyone else did. Perhaps she thought it heaven like; perhaps she thought it monotonous all the same. She did not mind in fact. The Witch wanted to pass on to the next dear life – if there was such thing – she wanted to die with absolution, in harmony – unlike the rest of her existence. The one thing she had ever heeded for was gone for good; she didn't even bother to live properly anymore. She wanted her own portion of redemption, her own little piece of soul back – if she had ever owned one, that is. He had claimed that she had possessed one: and all that she had left was to believe him.

And it had been denied to her, that little spark of hope – however ignorant, she had wished for it, and it had been neglected to her – once more, rejection was with her, but this time it hurt like the world's weight was mercilessly imposed upon her, with no solution provided. She couldn't pass on, not like this, not damaged – but to expire was all she sought. The Witch prayed, to the Unnamed God, to Lurline, to her departed lover, to whomever for a solution, for solvency. She yearned, like everyone else did, to have her way out, to have her essence cleared and purified: the wish we all desire for, in the end: to be accepted.

Perhaps, she thought, it wasn't about her own absolution at all: perhaps it was about the rejecter's clemency.

Sad, how redemption can be found in the most singular places – or people. The Witch remembered – and will remember – the day her absoluter came into her life. Oh, yes, that spoiled little brat. She had detested the child; she had been obnoxious, ignorant, ingrate and so futilely… vivacious. Of course, as ignorant as the infant was, she didn't trouble about much of the things: and so she drenched the Witch from head to toe. The splash of water was fresh, vivid, cool against her skin for the tiniest of seconds; then it burned her every pore, ruthlessly, unforgiving. The Witch could feel how, little by little, drop by drop, her life escaped her body painfully slowly, torturing her in the most excruciating way she could have ever expected.

Then, oblivious. This was what the afterlife was like: no responsibility, no endurance: only lightness, only buoyancy: how lovely, how charming. She damned the little girl, for being so ignorant a child, for, in some way, forgiving her; for liberating her from the suffocating grasp of life. The child, in her blissful unawareness, had released her. She damned her, but she was indebted. Now she was free, at last, and she could be home. Her soul, a recollection of her previous selves – Elphaba, Fabala, Elphie, Fae, Auntie Witch (or simply the Witch) – was finally returned to her, and she could reside in peace, merit to the holly liquid. She discovered that she had been forgiven but not entirely absolved. The only person who could complete her redemption was _him_: and he was awaiting and ready for her, in the end.

And so it came that the Witch was redeemed.


End file.
